


The First Step into Eternity

by WhereTheMoonShinesBright



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon ending, Gen, Immortal Characters, Male My Unit | Byleth, Spoilers for support endings if you tilt your head a bit, politics and intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 15:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereTheMoonShinesBright/pseuds/WhereTheMoonShinesBright
Summary: 20 years have passed since the end of the war. 20 long years in which Byleth and Seteth have set about to stabilizing the continent of Fòdlan.20 years in which Seteth has failed, inevitably, in coaching Byleth through his immortality.





	The First Step into Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> I can not stress enough how entirely subtextual the romantic aspect of the relationship between Byleth and Seteth is going to be. There’s also of course going to be references to some of the other BL paired endings, but I’m not going to get into all of that.

A path had been cut through the streets of Fhirdiad, the halls of the castle wreathed in silk of blue and black which continued all the way to a cathedral at the cities center. White and yellow wild flowers littered the streets, crushed under foot. Everywhere the people of Fhirdiad roamed about on foot, children picked up and exchanged what flowers they could get a hold of, the citizens of Faerghus flocked in from every corner of the country. 

The castle itself had been thrown into chaos preparing for visitation from the Kingdoms lords, and foreign dignitaries from Almyra. And then there was the effort of making preparations for the bishops of the other churchs, ensuring security for the massive gathering of important people without impeding upon the rights of the citizens. 

For everything in the world it looked like a grand celebration, and in some ways perhaps it was.

But even as the streets flooded it was far too silent to be a celebration. Aside from the occasional chatter of children, the capital was filled with stillness as though the morning fog had taken the breath of every citizen over 20 along with it.

Dimitri, the good and fastidious King of Faerghus-- the Savior King, as some had come to call him-- had been borne away by a familial illness some 20 odd years after the war’s end. Preparations to recognize the eldest of Dimtri’s children as the crown-prince and formal heir to the throne had transitioned into hasty preparations for the King’s funeral. 

The Archbishop had been invited to perform the funerary rites alongside the king’s family and friends. 

The crowded streeets of Fhirdiad part easily before the funerary procession. leaving the cathedral’s door hollowed. The Archbishop and his advisor waiting at the cathedral to meet him. The veil on top of the casket is thrown aside by the Archbishop as it is brought to him, and his fingers ghost over the facade on top. Seteth noted the set of the Archbishop’s face. It truly had been unfair not to warn him. 

Faerghus had not taken upon the tradition of death masks, but the top lid of the late-King’s coffin was embossed with his likeness— eye closed, in his armor, Areadbhar at his side. Looking for all the world as though he were standing sentinel even as he rested in the world beyond. 

Byleth’s performance of the funerary rites are imperfect. It was not something Seteth had needed to instruct him in to any great extent. Even as Byleth did not cry over the king’s loss, any pause in the instruction led to the hunch of his shoulders and those forlorn faraway stares. The breaks often led to Flayn dragging the archbishop away to one of the secluded courtyards for tea. 

The pauses in the rites are met with silence, the cries of mourning reserved momentarily for the doves in the rafters. For what it was worth, Dimtri’s family seems to waver with every pause, however full of meaning. 

Dimitri’s casket is placed under the cathedral’s floor by the Duke Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier, Sir Ingrid, and the King’s retainer, Dedue. There, he is near his father’s grave and amongst the long decayed remains of the other kings of Faerghus. The heavy stone tile is replaced with a tile baring the King’s name, his place in the royal line, the day he was born, and the day he had passed. 

The archbishop stands at the dais as the cathedral empties. As the common folk pour away, the Queen and her sons are escorted back to the palace. Ingrid, Ashe, Mercedes and Annette are the next to leave. Felix and Dedue linger, Sylvain eventually pulling a red-eyed Felix away from the grave. Dedue never looks for a moment as though he needs to decide whether or not he is going to remain. 

The cathedral is dismal, now emptied of its inhabitants, the colored glass of the windows so thick they barely let light in. The candles are burnt to the end of their wicks. And yet, the remaining candles do not cast shadows, even as the light flickers and dances across the walls. Even as the incense wafts through the chamber, the scent of still-wet mortar and tar burn at the back of the throat. The cathedral is as it should be, a place where ghosts are put to rest. 

Seteth unclips the ceremonial cloak from the Archbishops shoulders, and does not smile as he leans into the contact. With it draped over his arm he guides the Archbishop gently down the stairs to meet Dedue. They stand there for a while in calm understanding, the only sound those of sputtering candles, and the priests who are quickly working to extinguish and replace them. 

“His Majesty’s final request was for me to watch over him,” Dedue replies, tone surprisingly warm. “I promised him the end of my days.”

The Archbishop and Seteth both nod, as though that were an answer to a question one of them had asked. 

“The King asked you to watch over your own happiness as well.”

“He asked me to find peace. I’m at peace here.”

They stood there for a while longer, the chamber slowly beginning to re-illuminate. 

“Archbishop, our presence is required elsewhere today.”

The Archbishop nods again to Seteth’s interjection, the same easy automatic responses that can still convince most of Fòdlan that their Archbishop is unfeeling or simple-minded. 

“Your grace,” Dedue bids calmly. 

Byleth reaches out to the rough leather of Dedue’s glove and squeezes, just once. “I hope you will continue to make the yearly pilgrimage.”

“I will… consider it.”

The door shuts behind them, the shadow it imparts is impossibly large and dark. The early spring’s sun makes any other light seem as though it were a shadow. As they depart, they are immediately met with an equally blinding group of white-and-red robed sentinels. It is not a show of power, not as Rhea might have done. Their traveling band is only large enough to ensure that Seteth and the Archbishop would not get overtaken should someone decide to cause trouble. 

The next order of business is still rather simple. The dignitaries, both domestic and foreign, who have come to the funeral are to be invited to dinner. Byleth has the unpleasant task of trying to cajole either the eldest of Dimitri’s two birth sons or Dimitri’s wife into adopting the regency before someone else has the opportunity to claim it for themselves. Seteth has the equally pleasant task of placating Dimitri’s second son and his many adopted children. 

The path back to the castle is short and simple, still mostly abandoned to accommodate the funeral procession. The flowers that had lines the street are scattering, either dispersed by the wind or crushed into a brown decaying paste that is, aside from scent, indistinguishable from mud. 

At the castle, the Archbishop and his advisor are greeted more cheerfully by the princes and the widowed queen. The procession and the funeral rites are forgotten in favor of politeness. 

Fhirdiad is cold, even in spring, but the castle is unbearably hot. The warmth, when multiplied by the large number of inhabitants and the overwhelming smell of meat drippings, is nothing short of suffocating. 

Seteth serves as an inconspicuous distraction while the Archbishop convenes with the Prince and Queen more personally. Despite the occasion for the dinner, the only completely sullen corner of the room is that where those three talk. Sighing, defeated. Everyone is too enraptured by their own memories of the late-king to spare second, let along third thoughts, for the King’s family. 

The King’s adopted children bask in the attention and interest Seteth allows to them, in return they offer platitudes. During the first few years of stabilization, the Archbishop officiated the adoptions of Dimitri’s children and oversaw the births of the others. A yearly pilgrimage and occasional meetings to discuss other matters mean that the children are well acquainted with both the Archbishop and Seteth. They tell stories from trips to the monastery, and Seteth smiles politely when they occasionally remark that neither the Archbishop nor Seteth seem to have aged in the time since then. 

Fhirdiad is not so far that the Archbishop and his advisor can not afford to make the trip back to the monastery by the cover of night. Byleth truthfully does not want to stay in Fhirdiad when one of its key-components is missing, and Seteth is weary of the attention of those who have known them too well for too long. In any case, even a thousand years can not shake the fear that having everyone dear to one’s heart will end in…

But those thoughts are unimportant.

Byleth and Seteth do not talk about the proceedings, or the agreement that the Queen and Prince have made in the matter of succession.

The night sky does not stretch endlessly tonight. The lights from Fhirdiad catch and reflect off the clouds for miles of their journey, until the sky is so obstructed by the trees that it no longer matters. 

They do not talk about Dimitri’s death either. Even together like this, they are never truly alone with one another. They will be tonight, and they will be before the proceedings and in-between audiences the next day. But that is not enough time to properly breach the subject that must be addressed. 

Yet, Byleth truly looks at ease after the days proceedings. Dimitri had achieved a full and happy life, one that ended in comfort surrounded by his family rather than at the end of a sword or pike. 

It was a good death. 

Seteth knows this to be helpful and hurtful in equal measure. 

Byleth has several lifetimes of death ahead of him, and there is no proper way to prepare him for the way loss can expound upon itself.

**Author's Note:**

> This is about death because I wrote it in two nights after closing at work. Just kidding. Kind of...
> 
> This was originally a drabble, and then it turned into a one-shot and then I realized there was a lot more that I wanted to do with this idea. The way I’m writing this is also almost entirely me experimenting with some of the hyper-realist aspects of magical-realism so I’m sorry if this is tonally kind of weird. 
> 
> OH one more thing, it's worth mentioning that it's 3 in the morning so I gave this a good 5 or 6 proofreads but... look what I'm saying is there's a typo in there somewhere that my brain can't see and I'm sorry.
> 
> Message me @ChinUpKing on twitter


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